


russian four

by auxanges



Series: Polyswap Promptfest Pickings [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Christmas Fluff, Developing Relationship, F/M, Humanstuck, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22255651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: Prompt:so...............dance AUs. I've discussed a couple in-depth with friends of mine who shall not be named because they have way too much dirt on what I like.so. so. preparing for a round of the Nutcracker, maybe? or some other holiday spectacular that they're required to do?I would absolutely love choreographer Dirk who would stab a bitch for A. missing practice or B. insulting one of his dancers or C. not giving a whole ass. he can tell how much ass you're putting in. and no it's not because he's staring at that Peixes girl or either of those Ampora boys, ABSOLUTELY not.(I'd also love that Good Good Sexual Tension during dances or choreography practice that does or doesn't get resolved)(amporas can be either unrelated or uninvolved!!)*(high school musical 2 voice) i dont dance
Relationships: Cronus Ampora/Dirk Strider, Cronus Ampora/Feferi Peixes, Eridan Ampora/Dirk Strider, Eridan Ampora/Feferi Peixes, Feferi Peixes/Dirk Strider
Series: Polyswap Promptfest Pickings [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602049
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Polyswap Winter Promptfest - Dusk Edition





	russian four

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [thescyfychannel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel) in the [Polyswap_Winter_Promptfest_Dusk_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Polyswap_Winter_Promptfest_Dusk_2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> so...............dance AUs. I've discussed a couple in-depth with friends of mine who shall not be named because they have way too much dirt on what I like.
> 
> so. so. preparing for a round of the Nutcracker, maybe? or some other holiday spectacular that they're required to do?
> 
> I would absolutely love choreographer Dirk who would stab a bitch for A. missing practice or B. insulting one of his dancers or C. not giving a whole ass. he can tell how much ass you're putting in. and no it's not because he's staring at that Peixes girl or either of those Ampora boys, ABSOLUTELY not.
> 
> (I'd also love that Good Good Sexual Tension during dances or choreography practice that does or doesn't get resolved)
> 
> (amporas can be either unrelated or uninvolved!!)
> 
> *
> 
> (high school musical 2 voice) i dont dance

You pull into the parking lot at 6:43 AM with Fef in the passenger seat and four hot drinks in a carry-out tray. That’s two minutes before the fifteen minutes before rehearsal.

“Fuck,” you mutter, “we’re late.”

“Not our fault!” Fef insists, “you were driving behind someone’s grandma.”

“Whose grandma? The fuckin Queen?”

She rolls her eyes and nudges the door open with her foot, grabbing the drinks and her bag. You follow, shaking snow out of your hair.

“You’re late,” says your choreographer, not looking up from his tablet. Feferi once joked that the nuclear launch codes were probably on that thing, which made Dave laugh so hard juice came out several parts of him, and the three of you had to clean the whole studio.

“And you’re in a good mood,” you reply, shrugging off your jacket for stretches. “Very festive. Maybe you should have cast yourself as Clara instead of Fef.”

Dirk stares flatly at you over the lid of the cup Fef hands him. “I don’t know, I think that blue gown would really bring out the fullness of your lip, since that’s all you’ve been giving me since you got here.”

“Fifteen seconds ago. Also, what?”

“Speaking of lip,” he continues, “where’s your brother?”

The studio door slams open, and Cronus stamps slush off his boots, sucking in air. “Hey,” he gasps, “Traffic. Grandmas.”

“Save it for an art form with a speaking role, Ampora Two.” Dirk turns back to his tablet.

From the bar, Fef calls, “Hah! That’s a demotion!”

Cronus blows a raspberry at her and takes the fourth cup for himself.

You’ve been in the same dance company for a half-decade or so—it feels like longer some days, and like the blink of an eye for others. Dirk poached Fef following a competition where she claimed second in pointe: this set off her coach, which in turn set off Dirk. Forget the launch codes, that guy is a one-man Armageddon. They say the old crone wept herself dry and retired the next week.

The thing about Dirk that you respect most is that he gives a genuine fuck. You all do, even when you’re terrible at showing it (like your brother, in ratty sweatpants with a clear post-post-grad hangover in his sunken eyes and last year’s role stamped across his ass), but Dirk’s affection makes itself known in the last few rehearsals before opening.

Abruptly, your mental calendar flips to the correct page.

Dirk claps his hands twice behind you and you jump free of your inner bitchings. “Great. Six days to curtain, and five days to get your shit together. Let’s get Clara up here.”

Feferi bounds over, way too bright-eyed for the time of day. Dirk does not show whether he agrees, but you watch him soften around his angles. It suits him horribly well.

He continues. “Okay, here’s the sitch, as the young people say. The Mouse King went on a bender he’s too old for and I’m afraid of inflicting crush damage this early in the morning.”

“Hey,” Cronus protests, “I’m dainty as a fuckin butterfly.”

“You’re something,” Dirk mumbles, kicking off his tennis shoes. The rest of the dancers quit murmuring: your choreographer is your choreographer for a good reason, and it’s not because of his good looks. Well. Not just his good looks. “Nutcracker, ingest any alcohol last night?”

“No, sir.” You flip off Cronus’ unsubtle blowjob gesture.

“Real cute, girl scout. Find your marks, we’ll take it from end of six, warm your asses up the rest of the way straight into seven.”

The recording kicks up, and then you forget the rest of your bitching.

The other thing about Dirk is that he is very, very, very good at what he does. He keeps a half-tempo pace as he follows you, Fef, and the rest of the dancers through their exits, clocking it at two blinks a minute while he studies you and takes notes in the federal reserve that is his brain. Aside from the tablet where he controls the speakers and whiteboard app for the stage, he never actually writes shit down.

In your arms and around you, Fef twirls and leaps and bends and stretches her way into your world. You watch and react; from the wall, Cronus does the same; from behind you, Dirk’s foot copies some of your steps.

There’s no break between numbers, and that’s fine, because you can ride the high of one dance partner straight into another. Dirk never changes out of a muscle shirt and sweatpants, but he may as well be his own brand of royalty—he leaps in to any role he has to fill and gives what your cousin would call “make em cry percent.” The three of you are in a competition to see if you can crack a facial expression out of him; at last count, it’s a three-way tie, which is fine with all of you.

It’s a fight scene, at the end of it all, and while you give the mouse king as much fight as you would your brother, you do feel like you’re on the same side.

When the number finishes and Dirk signals a break, you think you catch wind of the same in his face.

“Hold up,” he says, when rehearsal is over and everyone’s clearing out.

Cronus looks back, one arm around Fef, and the other cradling his empty cup. “I know, I know, listen, man, I didn’t actually think I would be that bad but that egg nog was _way_ more whisky than—”

“I don’t care,” Dirk interrupts. “Well, I do. You still came to rehearsal, which is more than I can say for last year.”

You and Cronus exchange a knowing look. Dirk had sic’d his sibling on you, and if there was anything worse than an angry Dirk, it was an angry Roxy.

“You came through,” he continues, “and the whisky might actually have upped your game. Which, before you ask, is not an open invitation to repeat your little soirée.”

Fef raises a hand.

“Yes, Feferi?”

“What about a different kind of soirée? Like the supervised kind?”

Dirk cracks a small smile. It feels like the fucking gold medal. “You read my mind,” he says, which feels like a role reversal if you’ve ever heard one. “Dinner’s on me. Drinks are on Cronus.”

“Come on.”

“Okay. Drinks and dessert are on Cronus.”

Fef bumps her forehead against your shoulder, and you pick up Dirk’s gear for him. When you pile into your car, you let him pick the music. Everyone, you think, is a winner.


End file.
